Authors: V.C. Andrews
T
he rain came down like bullets fired by God. I stood at the back windows and watched the rain batter the faces of those marble statues, punishing them for being naked and sinful. I waited for Jory to come home and look for me.
Bad. We were both bad from living with parents who weren’t supposed to be parents.
Behind me Momma came in from a shopping spree, all rosy-cheeked and laughing, shaking the rain from her hair, greeting Emma like everything was okay. She dumped her parcels in a chair, took off her coat, and said she felt she might be catching a cold.
“I hate it when it rains, Emma. Hello, Bart—I didn’t see you there until now. How’ve you been? Lonesome for me?”
Wouldn’t answer. Didn’t have to talk to her now. Didn’t have to be polite, nice, or even clean. Could do anything I wanted. They did. God’s rules didn’t mean anything to them. Meant nothing now to me either.
“Bart, it’s going to be so nice this Christmas,” said Momma, not looking at me but at Cindy, who needed more
new clothes. “This will be our first Christmas with Cindy. The best kind of families always have children of both sexes, and in that way boys can learn about girls, and vice versa.” She hugged Cindy closer. “Cindy, you just don’t know how lucky you are to have two wonderful older brothers who will absolutely adore you as you grow up into a real beauty—if they don’t adore you already.”
Boy, if she only knew. But like Malcolm had said, beautiful women were dumb. I looked into the kitchen at Emma, who was not beautiful and never could have been. Was she wiser? Did she see through me?
Emma’s eyes lifted and met mine. I shivered. Yes, drab women were smarter. They knew the world wasn’t beautiful just because they had hold of beauty for a while.
“Bart, you haven’t told me what you want Santa Claus to bring you.”
I stared hard at her. She knew what I wanted most. “A pony!” I said. I took out the pocketknife Jory had given me and began to pare my nails. That made Momma stare at me, then her eyes moved to Cindy’s short hair that was just beginning to look pretty again.
“Bart, put that knife away. It makes me nervous. You might accidently cut yourself.” She sneezed then, then sneezed again and again. Always her sneezes came in threes. She pulled tissues from her purse to wipe her nose, then blow it. Contaminating my nice clean air with her filthy cold germs.
Jory didn’t come home until way after dark, soaked and miserable-looking as he stalked into his room and slammed his door. I grinned as I saw Momma frown. So, now her darling didn’t love her either. That’s what came of doing wrong.
Still the rain came down. She looked at me, her eyes large, her face pale, her hair a tangle all around her face, and I knew some men would think her beautiful. I yanked a hair from my head and held one end between my teeth as I pulled with one hand to stretch it taut. Easily my knife sliced it in two. “Good
knife,” I said, “sharp as a razor for shaving. Good for cutting off legs, arms, hair . . .” I grinned as she looked scared. Powerful. I felt so powerful. John Amos was right. Women were only timid, fearful imitations of men.
Rain came down harder. The wind blew it around the house and made howling noises. Cold outside, dark and cold. All night it rained, next morning it was still coming down. Emma drove away just because it was Thursday and she couldn’t miss a visit with a friend. “You take it easy now, ma’am,” she said to Momma in the garage. “You don’t look well. Just because you don’t have a fever doesn’t mean you won’t come down with something. Bart—you behave yourself and don’t make trouble for your mother.”
I left the garage and went into the kitchen, and somehow or other my arm that was really a plane wing knocked several breakfast dishes to the floor. I saw my bowl of cereal with raisins, little bugs on a creamy sea . . .
“Bart, you did that deliberately!”
“Yes, Momma, you always say I do everything on purpose. This time I let you see how right you are.” I picked up my glass of milk, hardly touched, and hurled it at her face. It missed her by inches, for she was quick to dodge.
“Bart, how dare you do that. When your father comes home I’m going to tell him, and he’ll punish you severely.”
Yeah, already I knew what he’d do. He’d spank my behind, give me a lecture on obedience and having respect for my mother. And his spanking wouldn’t hurt. His lecture wouldn’t be heard. I could tune him out and Malcolm in.
“Why don’t you spank me, Momma? Come on . . . let me see what
you
can do to hurt me.” I held my knife in position, ready to jab it if she dared to move closer.
Was she going to faint? “Bart, how can you act so ugly when you know I don’t feel well today. You promised your father you would behave. What have I done to make you dislike me so much?”
I grinned meaningfully.
“Where did you get that knife? That’s not the knife Jory gave you.”
“The old lady next door gave it to me. She give me everything I ask for. If I told her I wanted a gun, a sword, she’d get them, for she’s like you are—weak, so eager to please me, when there isn’t a woman alive who will ever please me.”
Real terror was in her eyes now. She moved closer to Cindy, who was still in her highchair, making a big mess with her graham cracker and her glass of milk, dipping in the cracker until it was mushy, then trying to rush it into her mouth before the mushy part fell off. And
she
wasn’t scolded.
“Bart, go to your room this moment. Shut and lock the door from the inside, and I’ll lock it from the outside. I don’t want to see you until your father is home. And since you didn’t think enough of your breakfast to eat it, then you don’t deserve any lunch.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. If you dare, I’ll tell the world what you and ‘your husband’ are doing. Brother and sister living together. Living in sin. Fornicating!” (A good “Malcolm” word.)
Staggering, she raised her hands to her face, wiped at her running nose again, stuffed the tissues in her pants pocket, then picked up Cindy.
“What yah gonna do, harlot? Use Cindy for a shield? It won’t work, won’t work, I’ll get the both of you . . . And the police can’t touch me. I’m only ten years old, only ten, only ten, only ten, only ten . . .” and on and on I kept saying that like I was a needle stuck in the same groove.
In my ears was John Amos’s voice, telling me what to do. I spoke as in a dream: “Once long ago there was a man in London called Jack the Ripper, and he killed prostitutes. I kill strumpets too, and bad sisters who don’t know right from wrong. Momma, I’m going to show you how God wants you to be punished for committing incest.”
Trembling and looking weak as a white rabbit, too scared to move, she stood with Cindy held in her arms, and waited as I stalked her . . . closer, closer, jabbing with my knife.
“Bart,” she said, her voice stronger, more under control, “I don’t know who has been telling you stories, but if you harm me or Cindy, God will have his revenge on you—even if the police don’t lock you up, or put you in the electric chair.”
Threats. Empty threats. John Amos had already told me a boy my age could do anything he wanted and the police couldn’t do a thing to stop or punish him.
“Is that man you live with your brother? Is he?” I yelled. “Tell me a lie and you’ll both die.”
“Bart, calm down. Don’t you know it will soon be Christmas? You don’t want to be put away and miss all the toys Santa Claus will put under the tree for you.”
“No Santa Claus!” I shrieked, even more furious—did she think I believed in that nonsense?
“You used to love me. All your life you have held back telling me so in words, but I could see it in your eyes. Bart, what has changed you? What have I done to make you hate me? Tell me so I can change, so I can be better.”
Look at that, trying to win me moments before her death . . . and her redemption. God would feel pity for her when she was butchered, humiliated in every way possible.
Squinted my eyes and raised my razor-sharp blade that my grandmother had not given me—it had been a gift from John Amos, given shortly after that old witch Marisha came.
“I am the dark angel of the Lord,” I said in my quivering old voice, “and I am here to deal out justice, for mankind has not yet discovered your sins.”
Swiftly she moved Cindy and turned her body so the little girl wouldn’t be injured when I thrust. Then, while I was watching what she was doing, her right leg shot out and caught my wrist with a hard kick. The knife went flying. I ran to get it, but she moved quicker and kicked the knife under
the counter. I threw myself down to feel for it, and in that time she must have put Cindy on the floor, for suddenly she was on top of me, twisting my arm behind me. With a handful of my hair in her other hand, she made me stand up.
“Now we’ll see who is boss, and who will be punished.” She shoved and dragged me, and never released my arm or my hair, as she forced me into my room and threw me on the floor. Quicker than I could scramble to my feet, she slammed the door and I heard the key turn. I was locked in.
“You whore, let me out. You let me out or I’ll set this house on fire. And we’ll burn, all burn, burn.”
I heard her raspy breathing as she panted, leaning on my closed bedroom door. I tried to find the stash of matches and candles I’d stored in my room. Gone. All my matches, all my candles, even the cigarette lighter I’d stolen from John Amos.
“Thief!” I roared. “Nothing in this house but thieves, cheats, whores, and liars! All of you after my money too! You think I’ll die today, tomorrow, next week, or next month—but I’ll live to see you dead, Momma! I’ll live to see every last one of the attic mice dead!”
Down the hall she sped. I heard the clickity-clack of her satin mules. I’d scared myself; now I didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t John Amos told me to wait until Christmas night, so everything would coincide with the other fire in Foxworth Hall. Do it the same way, only differently.
“Momma,” I whispered, down on my knees and crying, “I didn’t mean none of that mean stuff. Momma, please don’t go away and leave me alone. Don’t like to be alone. Don’t like what’s happening to me, Momma. Why did you have to go and pretend you were married to your brother? Why couldn’t you just have lived with him and us, and been decent?” I sobbed, afraid of what I could be when I felt mean.
She didn’t need to lock the door when she had Cindy with her, did she? Never could she trust me to do the right thing.
But that must be because she couldn’t help herself either, no more than me. She was born bad and beautiful, and only through death could God redeem her sinful soul. I sighed and got up to do what I could to save her from the mess she’d made of her life, and ours. “Momma!” I yelled, “unlock my door! I’ll kill myself if you don’t! I know all about you now, what you and your brother are doing—the people next door told me everything about your childhood. And your book told me the rest. Unlock my door, if you don’t want to come in and see me dead.”
She came to my door and unlocked it, staring down in my face, even as she wiped her nose and ran her hand through her hair. “What do you mean the people next door told you everything? Who are the people next door?”
“You’ll find out when you see her,” I said smugly, all of a sudden mean again. Drat that Cindy she had to hold on to all the time. Was me she gave birth to, not Cindy. “There’s an old man over there too, he knows about you and your attic days. Just go over and talk to them, Momma, and you won’t feel so happy to have a daughter anymore.”
Her mouth gaped open as a wild look of horror came to her blue eyes and made them look dark, dark. “Bart, please don’t tell me lies.”
“Never tell lies, not like you do,” I said, watching as she began to tremble so much she almost dropped Cindy. Pity she didn’t. But it wouldn’t hurt if she just fell to the carpeted floor.
“Now you stay here and wait for me,” she said as she headed for the coat closet. “For once in your life do as I say. Sit down and watch TV—eat all the candy you want—but stay in this house and out of the rain.”
She was going next door. I felt panicky inside, afraid she wouldn’t come back. Afraid she wouldn’t be saved, afraid maybe after all, this wasn’t a game John Amos was playing, not a game after all. But I couldn’t speak. For God was on the side of John Amos—he’d have to be since
he
wasn’t sinning.
Dressed in her warmest white winter coat, wearing white boots, Momma picked up Cindy, who was dressed warmly too. “Be a good boy, Bart, and remember always I love you. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes, though heaven only knows what that woman in black can know about me.”
I flicked a quick shamed glance at her pale, worried face. Momma was gonna crack up when she met my grandmother, who was her own mother. Momma was gonna end up in a straightjacket and I’d never see her again.
Why wasn’t I glad that already God was punishing her, beginning her redemption? My head ached again. My stomach felt queasy. Legs didn’t want to obey, but had a leaden weight of their own that knew their mind. Pulling me along with them to the coat closet as Momma slammed the front door behind her.
Momma
, my soul was crying,
don’t go and leave me alone. Don’t like to be alone. Nobody will love me but you, Momma, nobody will. Please don’t go over there—don’t let John Amos see you.
Shouldn’t have said anything. Should have known you wouldn’t stay here where it was safe. I pulled on my coat and raced to the front windows to watch her carrying Cindy into the wind and cold rain. Just as if she, a mere woman, could face up to God and his black wrath.
Soon as she was out of sight I slipped outside and began to follow her. Did this new coat mean she really did love me? No, said the wise old man in my brain, didn’t mean anything. Gifts, toys, games, and clothes were easy things to give—things that all parents gave their children even when they were about to feed them arsenic on sugared doughnuts. Parents held back what was most important, security.
I sighed wearily, hoping someday, somewhere, I’d find the mother who would stay forever, the mother who was right for me—who would always understand I was doing the best I could.